I realize my last post was very bitchy. Sorry about that!
"Cooler" weather has continued in Socal, so we spent part of Labor Day weekend out here, painting walls and raking trash our of the sand. Our handy guy came out and fixed one of our incorrectly constructed graywater drains. This week he'll begin to remodel our bathroom shower, taking out the original cast iron tub (which is leaking). We can only shower outside for so long, because cold weather is coming. Ted and I feel a bit conflicted investing in such a wreck when we don't have the skills or energy to do most of the work. We have to contract professionals. When we can get our hand dirty (and our bodies drenched with sweat), we are happy. Now that the bulk of the trash is removed, fine sifting will be a part of our lives for years. We rake through the sand, pulling up metal, wood, paper, and the dreaded plastic. Also tons of broken ceramic and glass. Bag and haul it out. We have decided out ruined cottage yard will be for sculptors, and are organizing the metal, wood and other interesting finds to be used in assemblage. It would be fun to have a game in which artists might create from what they find in a small area. At the end of the day we got invited to a BBQ in Yucca Valley, to a lovely house with a pool. The other guests assured us that the heat is almost done, and we made a good decision to buy out here because the tourist hoards are about to arrive again, and everyone wants a piece of this beautiful, harsh land. At dusk I saw dozens of giant vultures gliding south, bats flapping around, and an owl.
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Last weekend my older son wanted to see the property, so I brought him, his brother and his cousin out for one night. We arrived during a slightly cooler spell, meaning at 5pm it was only 101 and not 110. Still hot, and I really needed a cold drink before making dinner for three hungry teens.
What awaited us inside was a dead refrigerator and no electricity in the front half of the house. Why? A week earlier Ted had driven out for a 7am appointment with the electrician only to have him cancel. So Ted had to turn around. The guy came the next day and replaced the electrical panel (which was very old and dangerous) after months of delay, at a hefty price, of course. Needless to say, it was not my best moment. All the food I had in the freezer and fridge was rotting, a huge bag of ice had melted everywhere, and there was no cold beer. Our electrician did come out on a Saturday night to fix what turned out to be a loose wire, apologized and said he'd pay for the spoiled food. But I don't know, it just seems like this sort of thing is happening more out here than in the city. Next morning I calmed down with yoga at the 29 Palms Inn, and painted a wall in the office pink. So there! I'm a painter, in part because I grew up surrounded by paintings. This one, "Desert Symphony" by Bill Bender, was painted the year I was born. It hung above the fireplace at my grandparents' house, and is now owned by my parents. Eventually it will probably be mine. I love it.
It shows the view of the mountains south of La Quinta, where my grandparents had their desert house. My grandfather collected the work of the Cowboy Artists of America, and Bender was a cowboy and stuntman. I don't think he ever had much success as an artist, but few do. The point is to live a full life, right? Enjoy. Yes, I brought two buckets full of sand out to the Desert Dairy this weekend. Why, my young ones asked, incredulously? Because all sand is not equal--desert sand is too fine. This rough San Diego stuff will be used to make concrete for our... pizza oven! I am excited!!!
Literally. It'll be officially posted this weekend, when we hope to see the Perseid Meteor shower. My helper is our "Turkish" son, come to visit California. Postscript:
I drove up late, arriving after midnight, but was treated to a gorgeous orange half moon rising as I headed east on 62.
Next morning the guys arrived at 5:30am and by midmorning the trash bin was full. And I did... nothing. The heat sapped my strength, my normal energy was zero. I considered abandoning ship, but instead sweat and slept the day away, and sat under the mister in the evening, after my ritual run to the grocery to cool off. My car said 115 at 6pm. That is hot. Next day, though, I felt better. Went to yoga at the 29 Palms Inn (outside on the grass, I think we need grass somewhere on our property), and came back to paint a few walls. And I began to appreciate our dirt, getting cleaner with each bin filled. In thinking about starting an artist residency, I'm reviewing the experiences I've personally had at two residencies: Cill Rialaig in southwestern Ireland and the Centre Pompadour in northern France. I also took an Intro to Hospitality course at Mesa College last semester, and the professor allowed me to write most of my papers on artist residencies and similar "resorts." I learned A LOT.
What needs to be considered when planning a residency? First is to make sure it is financially viable. Every residency has to have funding, whether it is for-profit or non-profit. The rent/mortgage must be paid. Employees, insurance, infrastructure, taxes, PR... artists may not want to think about these things, but residencies are a type of hotel, and hotels don't run themselves for free. Each residency is unique in the way time and space are configured. How and where do residents meet each other and the hosts? How do artists interact with the physical space, the land, the weather, the surrounding area? What will make the Desert Dairy unique from other residencies, especially the existing residency in Joshua Tree? In coming posts I'll think about these questions. For the next year we'll be scheduling mini-residencies and workshops, asking artists and others to come and use the space to help us figure out how to best serve our guests, and about how to heal the land. We will ask for time and a bit of labor in exchange for using our property. Are you interested in helping out, when the weather cools off a bit? Let us know. Today another trash bin was delivered! A local crew will start to remove more of the remaining trash by hand (no tractors). Our San Diego contractor won't work in such hot weather, so we found some great guys who will start at 4am and work until temps get too high. I know it's hard to imagine the extent of the trash, but the property was used as a dump FOR YEARS. Healing this place has become my #1 goal. On a side note, the beach is definitely signally me that it doesn't want me. Last year the one time I went into the ocean I swam with a large shark, and today I stepped on a sting ray. Painful! I can't wait to get back to the desert. Up until now, the only people who have been on our property have been friends who have stopped by to see the mess. I haven't even offered them iced tea. Last weekend, between hot spells (meaning it only got to 109), we prepared for our first houseguests. Meaning, we needed another working bedroom, and for the toilet to flush. The bathroom was not working because the pipes were galvanized steel, and during our three months with no water, they rusted solid. Our local handyguy came to the rescue and soldered copper pipes in the basement while we ran to home depot for a new vanity. And a bathroom of sorts came together! In celebration we had our first dinner party, Turkish mezes, kofte and imam beyildi. Success! I now understand the importance of people using the place, to see where they want to hang out and what needs to be more comfortable. Our friends had lots of ideas of how to use the property to full advantage. We also tried a hike in Indian Cove with Toulie, but he quickly pooped out. Short legs and dark fur are not the best for the desert. Galant effort, though!
As I mentioned in the last post, rabbits and ground squirrels eat just about everything living in the desert. Our first go-round with planting was a total waste of time--all the little cacti we put in were annihilated. Now wire cages will protect all new plants, until thorns are long enough to thwart the hungry critters.
I'm getting a kick out of imagining the rabbits staring longingly at the new prickly pear growth, unable to get at it. The desert is war! Our property has mature trees on it, but they are mostly tamarisk, or salt cedar. I was always taught these trees, which are not native and were planted for wind breaks, should be taken out. That is easier said than done. They have very long tap roots and each drinks up to 400 gallons of water per day. They are sucking our well water up. Recent research, however, says that tamarisks are better than no trees at all. Other trees can grow at the edges of the groves, and they provide shade for birds and animals in the desert. So our tamarisks will have to stay for now. We have two dwarf olive trees that were extremely stressed by our lack of water the past three months. Now that the well is flowing again, we are watering them and they are starting to come back. Yesterday in the later afternoon I needed a simple job for my heat-addled brain, so I crawled under one of the olives that is more like a big bush, and began to prune all the small growth off so the main trunks and branches can flourish. Pruning trees is very satisfying, because you can quickly see the difference in the shape of the tree. I imagine the tree thanking me for pampering it, and making it stronger. While I was pruning I remembered sitting under another olive tree at my grandparents' house, and having difficult conversations about the end of life. The tree is still there but my grandparents are not. I'm researching other trees to plant in the fall. We have gray water that runs from the kitchen, so I'm planning a couple of shade trees nearby, possibly desert willow and mesquite. I may also try a pomegranate and a pepper tree. As with everything else here, gardening has a heavy learning curve. Rabbits and ground squirrels ate almost all our first attempts at cactus planting. Now we are caging everything that goes into the ground. The desert is not a neutral place. I either feel intense happiness and wonder, or I'm pretty discouraged. I'm learning to wake up early, in the 5am hour, both to see the sunrise, and to begin working when both the house and outside are relatively cool. Getting up so early makes for a very long day. I can get lots done in morning. (See cross-offs on lists below--I live by lists.) Then around 11am, I begin to wander in circles and get overwhelmed. Because I'm heating up and don't think clearly when hot, it's time to crank up the AC in one of the rooms and rest. The afternoons are not usually good. I get crazy and feel like we'll never get the place in any kind of shape. The trash still on the property weighs on me. The large projects we can't seem to get started (electricity repair, for example) hit wall after wall. At least we have water.
Besides psychological highs and lows, there are the physical ones. Earlier this week we created a temporary outdoor shower, using a table top (found on property), garden house and sprayer. We set up some old metal doors (found on property) for a bit of privacy, but in reality, there's no need. We are totally alone, and could run around all day naked if we wanted to--not a pretty picture! It's so beautiful to shower under cool water and puffy clouds! The day's true low... when do you install a window AC unit? At night when it's still 102 and you're sweating, and a biblical swarm of bugs flies in the open window, landing all over your bed, that's when. Next day is a new day, though, and I'm high again, and looking forward to my midday shower under the tamarisk trees. Water!
The pipe broke 4 times and had to be capped once. If there had been one more break we would have said forget it, the entire system has to be replaced. But then it held! Water began to flow to the kitchen sink, after 14 weeks dry. Obviously, the pipe is not buried deep enough (probably crushed by our bulldozers), and it will have to be rebuilt at some point. The toilet and bathroom sink still don't work (that problem has yet to be diagnosed). But it's amazing to have water flowing to the kitchen and bathtub. I'll flush with buckets for now, no problem. I mopped the floors! I scrubbed the toilet! I watered the trees and cats! And I ran the dishwasher. Just about everything about this property is crap, but the dishwasher is f--in' amazing! The previous owner had told me it worked well, and they found it across the dirt road. The desert giveth. I arrived back in SoCal from being away in Sweden and France, and within two days was driving back out to our desert property to see what had survived the first month of real heat. And although Ted said we now have water, we do not. The well is fixed, the bacteria in the water shocked, the electricity flowing. But we have a broken pipe between the well and the house (probably caused by the trash pickers). Our contractor can't convince any of his workers to return to work in 107 degree temperatures, in a house with no water or AC. So... I bought a portable AC to keep at least one room cool. And it worked! Kid .02 and I were able to work and sleep in that one room. And what to do when you can't go outside? Paint! Here's my beautiful lad pulling hardware from the bedroom walls, which used to be a dusky pink and now will be bright white (for the time being). As I work in the house, a picture forms of the previous owner as a woman who was once happy, but later lost control of her life. She had three locks on the bedroom door, very sad. Saturday night we went out to an opening at JTAG and a Pride show at Art Queen. Also popped into La Matadora, great embroidery show, very smart. Next morning I got up early (yay for jet lag!) and painted part of the living room, white and green. Ted hates green paint, but was willing to do it if we can eventually make a cactus wallpaper here. Fine with me--patterns will help hide all the large holes that must have held up a mirror.
By 1pm it got too hot to work. A friend brought out 100 gallon tanks to water the two olive trees that are looking bad (like on their last leaf). It was definitely old school, hooking hoses up to the tanks in the back of his truck, and sucking the water into the hose with his mouth. Next weekend will return, and have appointments with the electrician to start to update the house, a solar company, an AC company, and a couple friends who will come by to view the disaster. AND a handyman to dig a trench to fix the broken pipe. I hope, I hope, I hope. --AS I'm at a residency in Northern France called the Centre Pompadour Laboratory of Neo Feminism. My main goal is to paint a series of work for a show in November at Blue Azul Gallery in San Diego, but I'm also doing research on residencies, getting ideas for the Desert Dairy. I will eventually write about both this French residency and my Irish residency last year in detail, but first I want to think about residencies in general.
When I was an undergrad in the 1980s, and a grad student 15 years later, the topic of residencies rarely came up. I thought they were only for famous or successful artists, and that they were difficult to get, both of which were probably true at the time. Now, every good academic art program promotes residencies, and there are hundreds all over the world. A young woman here in France, who just finished her undergrad, told me her professors constantly pushed the ambitious students to apply. Read any bios of artists with galleries lately? They are stacked with residency awards. It's both fantastic and a racket. And a business. I've been asking fellow residents about expectations, and about the reality, of this suddenly widespread rite of passage. Some, like me, arrive with a specific plan, materials and vision of a project, either new or continuing. Then it's just a matter of spending time making the work. Other artists come to a residency to experience the specific place (the architecture, the natural setting, the vibe, the fellow artists, even the weather...) and then they make work based on reactions and inspiration. In my opinion this is the riskier option, but that's perhaps because it's not a natural way for me to make art. The biggest anticipation when preparing for a residency is that you'll have time to yourself. This is also the biggest shock. Most artists are so busy with their lives/jobs/responsibilities, that carving out large amounts of time to think about, and make, work seems an unimaginable luxury. We crave what we don't have. Personally, I almost never have a continuous time block of more than two hours in a day to paint. So we all can't wait for the hours/days/weeks in front of us with only our work. Then comes the reality. It's not a vacation. Although you may do a bit of tourism, you basically stay in one place and work. All that time is scary. After a few days, when the excitement of the new place wears off, you begin to be a bit afraid that you've committed too much time--you can feel guilt, or boredom, or even drudgery in your work. Then a routine forms and you get used to it. Some days are great, and you work for 12 hours feeling fantastic. Or you work a bit and then have inspiring conversations with the other artists. Or you take long walks and solve the problems you're grappling with. Other days are not so good. You feel blocked. You paint/sculpt/write/compose/work badly. You fail. You take naps. In the end, some artists accomplish completed projects, or at least gain new focus or energy. Some come away with nothing concrete, but hope the residency will affect future work. I supposed some simply have another line on their resume, or connections in other cities/countries. Our networks expand, but more importantly, our artwork becomes bigger. We understand the world a bit better. What do you think? What have you experienced? What would you like an artist residency to be? As you all might assume, water is somewhat important out in the desert. There is the drinking, and the watering of plants, and the house cleaning, the flushing, and cat hydration. All of those are things we have not been able to do since almost the day we got this place. It is a funny story….. So, the woman that owned our place was stealing electricity from Edison. She had jumped power from the electric pole into her fuse box, bypassing the meter with car jumper cables. Besides a possible fire hazard we didn’t want to get tagged for being electric thieves, so as soon as we got the house we called Edison and they cut the power. Good citizens us. Being city folk we didn’t realize that our honesty and fear of fire would come back to bite us in the ass... like a scorpion hiding in your shoe, which would actually bite your toe and not your ass, but anyway... it seems that that power line worked the well pump and that there were two fuse boxes. One for the house and one for the barn/pump. So by doing the right thing we cut our water supply and sealed our non-watery fate. The guy who cut the power told us it would take about two weeks to get a new electric panel, but he assured us this was simple and we could have things up and running after that. That was 10 weeks ago. Since the house is so old and pre-records, there is no paperwork showing that we had a legal meter and Edison doesn’t like having two meters on a single property anymore. Well, that took seven weeks to get sorted out. Still no water. Each time Anna and I went up to the property we had to drive to the JT tourist center in 29, fill up our single and 5 gallon water bottles, bring them all back to the house and then water plants, flush toilets, put out water for the two cats that live in the crawl space below the roof. Then we would drive back and do it all again before they closed. Two trips a day for water just for the basics, like pioneers. I actually had to drive out to the desert once just to make sure the cats had water. A five hour round trip. Last week we were told that the power was fixed, so we had the well guy come and update the well. Once that was done we flipped the switch only to find that the meter was never turned on and we still had no power. So our weekend was once again filled with trips to get water and no way to wash the dishes that have been piled up in the sink, or anything else. We were getting tired of driving to the tourist center for a working toilet. Yesterday, after calling Edison again (I've called every 2 days for a month), begging for someone to come deal with things, some guy came out and said, “Oh, no one turned on the meter. They could have done that from the office. I'll turn it on." He flipped a switch on his tablet and amazingly, power was on. Finally. So now we have water. The cats have a four gallon tank on the patio just for them for when we are gone. All is right with the world, except for the scorpions and the remaining trash. But that will be gone soon. The trash, not the scorpions, I mean. Oh, and the snakes. We're waiting for them to show up. Below are photos of the old well, and the new well. Neither of which look very well-like. Ideas to improve? Daphne Hill, my long time painting partner, and I have a business together painting collaborative works. We've been working together as Hill&Stump for about 7 years. We paint florals and plants, some inspired by Southern California. Daphne has recently moved back to her childhood hometown in Tennessee to care for family there. So now we're going to work remotely, and get together a few times a year to finish paintings and do shows. Above are some new starts (only the first pass) inspired by the Mohave Desert. We had a show at Bunny Gunner/Taylor Junction a few years ago, and we painted some Joshua Trees and Ocotillo, but those have all sold. A good sign! Hoping to do a show in the fall in 29 Palms. Below are sold paintings...
In a few days I'm flying to Sweden for a week, where I've co-curated a large group exhibition in Stockholm, and will participate in a pop-up in Linkoping. After that I'm headed to a two week residency in Northern France at the Centre Pompadour. Goals for the residency... The planner in me is organized to create a body of work based on nests of French birds for an exhibition I've got in the fall called "Empty Nest" (both an environmental statement, because the birds are disappearing, and a comment on the wrap-up of the active motherhood phase of my life). I'm excited to meet other women artists and feminists (this is a residency for Neo-Feminists!). Lastly I'm anxious to experience another residency to gather practical and business information: How do they organize the residency? How do they make it financially viable? How do they interact with their residents? I want to be quiet. I want to take long walks and do long sessions in which I just paint and listen to music. This semester has exhausted me--I've taught way too much in too many places, driving hours every day. I've barely had time to paint, even though I had several big exhibitions. I've sold a series of work, but also been disappointed in two big shows of nudes where I had no major sales. Which means I really can't make large scale nudes any more. I've got to face facts--making big work that has no potential of selling is a luxury I can't afford. Will try to post from Europe. xox-a The weather was lovely, mid-80s at the hottest, on hopefully what will be our last weekend without water. All I can do at this point is trash pick up--the entire front fence is now cleaned. (I have a thing about a house's front yard being presentable. Not that it matters in this rangy property, but still. I have a thing.) Big excitement was uncovering a scorpion the size of a small lobster. Too bad you can't grill 'em. T and Kid.02 were more creative: they made a "wind break" for the ramada out of found wood and signs. Don't know how long it will last, but repairs will be creative. And I woke up on Mother's Day to this lovely greeting off the front porch, where I drink my coffee and watch for road runners every morning... The new electric line is now hooked up to the barn, and the well will be repaired and updated this coming week. Halle-f****in-lujah. Fun Saturday night gallery hopping in Joshua Tree. My guy bought me a small sculpture from local metalsmith Gubby Beck at the Art Queen. Ed Rusche was showing at JTAG--fancy prices for the desert, but nice to see. At Taylor Junction we met the brave owner of another property restoration project, the John Hilton House, just a few miles east of us. Jamie's been out here working for three years already. The original owners were artists connected to the Cowboy Artists of America, whom I'm familiar with through my grandparents. But that's another desert story. Ended the evening at the ever inspiring Furstworld.
OK, I know this is trivial, but color is very important to us painters. So from the beginning we've been discussing what color to paint the inside of the house (exterior, currently a desaturated pink, will have to wait). Window trim is/will be white. Kid.02 likes faded, sandy colors and suggested these (the brown is the color of the floors): When you live in the city there are lots of colors everywhere you go, which we normally don't even notice. In the country, going outside in the desert means beige and blue in the daytime. I think that's why dusk and dawn are so amazing there. And night is inky dark. I've only experienced living in a minimal color palette a couple times before, in the redwoods of Northern California (green and purple, a combo I find depressing), and in Turkey where the desert colors are also stark.
We couldn't go out to the desert last weekend, so am anxious to get back this weekend--a nice Mother's Day for me! The electricity on the barn has finally been turned back on after much effort on Ted's part, so the well may be working soon. All our trees are stressed because of the lack of water in the sceptic tank, which was pumped. So much depends on water: basic cleaning, basic repair, flushing...
I'm in the final weeks of classes at my various colleges, and it's momentous to think that this is my last semester of crazed running around. Next fall I'll teach at ONE school a few days each week, and the rest of my time will be spent on the Dairy. We are setting goals to have some things running by fall: hosting one or two unofficial residents, and maybe starting some classes. At least I'll be using the studios (in the house or in the barn) to make my own work (can't wait to see what the desert does to it!). I will also start to know the art community, both by attending and applying to shows. I've been thinking about choosing to live in the desert... I grew up in just one house (in Chula Vista, at the Border), a testament to my hardworking mom who was a kindergarten teacher. Then I went away to college, not for the place (LA) but for the school. After that I basically followed various men, which is sad, but true. They moved or stayed, and I moved or stayed. Then kids, and you can't really move them easily. Now, for the first time in my life, I've chosen a specific place, found a property, and am making a business there. It's sort of amazing. I don't know if I'll succeed, and I'll definitely need to make a community there, because I don't really know anyone yet. By friends are far flung now, and my kids are growing up, so it's time. Last weekend I took Kid.02 out to stay at the Dairy, and he was impressed, except for the lack of water. I told him we were going to work like dogs, and that's just what we did. He was a trooper.
On the way out of town we visited the Glass Outhouse Art Gallery, just east of downtown Twentynine Palms. It's a former rabbit farm turned outsider sculpture garden. The main attractions are a small chapel, an outhouse made of one-way mirrored glass (it's actually pretty cool to take a pee where you can see out 360 degrees, but no one can see in), and a community gallery. The owner, very friendly, was sitting with other artists outside and offered us free cold drinks. She hosts an opening every month. You just never know what you'll find out here! I spent the morning raking the sand for trash, first in rows, then pushing it into piles, then hand sifting. It’s going to take years to get all the plastic and metal out of this dirt. If we can ever get it done. It’s like some kind of bad dream where we are farming for human junk.
Found this perfect little hammer in the toolshed. The handle is hand-carved, probably a blacksmith tool? Don't know, but it'll serve as a metaphor for our work here. Because nothing can be forced here. We have to be careful, tapping away lightly. We have to know when to push and when to wait. The desert is not our place. We didn't grow up here, we must respect what has been here before us.
T has had this romantic idea that if we found a perfect place abroad, we could move there and our lives would be idyllic. Having lived abroad, I can safely say it's never easy living in a foreign place. My old blog, Kloe Among the Turks, tells the stories of my lives in Turkey. It was a tremendous experience. But if I got one thing done per day, I learned to be happy about it. So here we are, at the start of this huge, amazing project, to heal this desert property that has been badly treated, to deal with a city that is conservative in every way, to make our few dollars stretch, and to enjoy the journey. We are not young. How many years will it take, how much frustration? We have to be calm and not expect too much. We have to enjoy each day and weekend. Thanks for reading this, we love to have you along for the ride. xox |
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AuthorsAnna does most of the writing. Ted does most of the photos. But sometimes we switch. We are repairing a distressed property in 29 Palms, California, and eventually hope to run an artist residency there. |